Sometimes the opressive Louisiana summer heat produces within me a deep feeling of melancholy and torpor, not unlike what French poets refer to as the Spleen. My only reprieve for the past few days has been a few good World Cup matches, cold beer with friends and the salty, sweet words of Anthony Bourdain. I wonder how common this seasonal malady is. I bet it regularly affects half of the population down here, probably many more this year.
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